


bunny ears

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Up Came the Sun [21]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Everyone Is Alive, Gen, Iron dad and Spider son, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Endgame, THE PHOTOGRAPH, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, sorry - Freeform, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 07:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18331817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: Thank God for that picture.





	bunny ears

**Author's Note:**

> You know the picture. The picture from the new trailer? THAT PICTURE.
> 
> Stick this as like a prologue before Recall of the Living.
> 
> I couldn't make it super angsty, because I can't handle that and I don't know how I will during the actual movie. I almost threw up when I saw this in the new preview. Please ignore the mistakes, I wrote this in like an hour because otherwise my brain wouldn't stop screaming. I'm not going to survive the night of 4/25.
> 
>  
> 
> If you don't mind a blog that consists of shitposting, misunderstanding the memes all the kids talk about today, Johnlock conspiracies, and occasional MCU screaming follow me on the tumblr dot com [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

Tony rubs his eyes and yawns, stumbling down the dark hallway to the first door on the left from the master bedroom, where Pepper is sleeping soundly. He reaches for the doorknob but before he gets there the door pulls open and May steps out, right on time.

The changing of the guard.

“Hey,” she yawns, tucking her phone in the pocket of the fuzzy lounge pants she borrowed from Pepper, which are far too long and saggy around the hips. They fit the way Tony’s old clothes fit on Peter.

“Still out?” Tony yawns again himself, pocketing his own phone and cradling his left arm, which is still strapped against his chest.

“Yeah, thank god. First time,” May is tired, drawn, the dark smudges under her eyes evidence of almost a week of sleepless nights. She squeezes the pillow under her arm.

“He’ll get there. It’s only been a few days.”

“I know,” May blinks hard and bunches her shoulders up around her ears. “Hopefully he’ll be good for you, too.”

“He could only be so lucky,” Tony forces a sad smile that he doesn’t feel. None of them feel it, none of them have settled back, least of all the the six of them who still remember a shade of four long years that for the rest of the world, never existed. “He needs sleep.”

“We all do,” May reaches out and pats Tony’s cheek. “Try and get some, while you can.”

“You too, May,” he squeezes her hand, and the guards part ways.

Peter’s room is mostly dark, save for the sliver of light coming from the cracked ensuite door. Peter is thankfully, blessedly asleep, curled up in the middle of the queen-sized bed, the duvet pulled up over is ears and an arm wrapped around one of the decorative pillows any normal person would have tossed to the floor.

Tony heads over to the partially made up futon in the corner, their shared observatory, where he and May have taken turns waiting for Peter to wake up, screaming and wailing at or for something he can’t quite articulate. If he’s hit four hours tonight, it’ll be the longest uninterrupted sleep he’s had since he passed out on the way back from Titan.

None of them have slept, not really, but Tony is lucky in that he’s used to it, used to the insomnia and the nightmares and the entirely unhealthy coping methods. But Peter is still a child, one who was dragged into a hellscape he shouldn’t have been and snuffed out in the unlucky flip of a coin. He looks so tiny, curled up in the bed, and Tony has to fight the physical urge to reach out and touch his head, to make sure he’s solid and there and not another heartrending dream. He doesn’t dare, he can’t wake the kid up. Not if he’s been out for four straight hours. Tony wants to hit a record tonight.

Tony sinks down onto the futon, grunting as he tries to get comfortable against the hard cushion with a back that is way to old for this and a useless left arm. Cho doesn’t know if he’ll ever regain full use of it, but it’s a small sacrifice to what he’s gotten back, even if it takes him far more effort than it should to get a throw over his lap.

He’ll take a bum arm and a crappy futon any day.

Before Tony realizes it he’s jerking awake, unsure how he even fell asleep--he usually doesn’t--or what woke him up. The spider-sized lump in the bed is quiet, and hasn’t moved, but Tony can hear the slight shift in his breathing, the tiny tremble as he exhales.

“I know you’re awake, bud. You alright?”

Peter blows out a breath and rolls over under the duvet. “Yeah,” his voice is small, as small as he is in the middle of the large bed.

“You sure?” Tony awkwardly shifts himself up with one arm, his spine screaming in protest. Peter doesn’t answer but Tony thinks he hears the ruffle of the duvet moving in a shrug. “Ok, cover your eyes. I’m gonna turn on the light, I can’t see in the dark like you.”

Tony gives it a few beats to be sure, then shifts over to the floor lamp next to the futon. It hurts to reach for but he gets it, and the room is flooded with bright, unnatural light that throws everything into a harsh relief, particularly the exhausted teenager who has pulled himself up sitting.

Peter looks awful; pale and sickly, the dark rings under his eyes brighter than probably anybody in the compound. He’s positively swimming in one of Tony’s old MIT t-shirts, the bones of his collarbone and shoulder visible under the stretched out collar.

At least he’s not screaming.

“Another one?” Tony pries gently.

“No,” Peter shakes his head, and wraps his arms around his knees. “Just...I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to, kiddo,” Tony nods sadly, mostly to himself. “You think you’re up for the night?”

“What time is it?” Peter looks around the room, as if he’s never seen it before, or can’t remember it, even though he’d been sleeping in it at least one weekend a month for almost two years. One of his calculus books is still sitting on the desk, accidentally left one weekend, and then the world ended before Tony could get it back to him.

“Three-thirty,” Tony finds the small clock on the bookshelf-headboard seconds before Peter twists to look at it. He watches as he moves in slow motion, reaching for something stashed there, and comes away with a small black frame that he cradles against his knees.

“We should take a new one,” Peter whispers after a few moments.

“Hmmm?”

“A new picture,” he briefly holds it up so Tony can see, then brings it back to his lap. “The certificate is upside down.”

“It’s not a real certificate, Pete.”

“I know, but…” he shakes his head, rubbing one eye. “And I misjudged how tall you _aren’t_ , Mr. Stark. Your bunny ears suck.”

Tony chuckles, he can’t help it, because a tiny bit of _Peter_ just poked its way through. “It’s not my fault you’re bad at it. And I like that picture.”

“But we should take a real one.”

“Why? It won’t be the same.”

“This picture is ridiculous. Who can I show this to?!” Peter’s voice raises about three octaves. Tony will take it.  "You're not even smiling.  And my mouth is open.  I look like a fish."

“Oh it’s incredibly ridiculous. We can take another one. But I’m keeping that picture.”

Peter is silent for a moment; Tony watches as he drags a finger over the frame, brow furrowed. Tony knows the question is coming, he can feel it, and his throat tightens. Someday they’re going to have to talk about it, all of it. Someday Peter is going to ask. He knows he was torn apart, and then he knows he was reformed, but Tony knows he’ll want to know more. What happened between what was probably seconds to him.

“Why?”

Tony takes a deep breath. “Because that was the only one I had.”

Peter looks up at him, his brows still furrowed.

“I didn’t even remember I had it. God, everything was a fog,” Tony’s eyes burn. “And everyone went off, and I didn’t. I couldn’t. Then Pepper...she put that in the kitchen. Just there, one morning. And...yeah.” He smiles sadly, willing his eyes to dry before he cries in front of the teenager he’s supposed to be comforting.

“Mr. Stark…”

“So I’ll take it,” Tony shrugs, and tries to laugh in that way only a handful of people can see through, but it comes out high and choked. “If you don’t want it.”

Tony watches as Peter looks back at the photo, frowning, and before he can stop it the room blurs. He reaches for his eyes, digging his right palm into one, then the other, not willing to openly cry in front of Peter again. He did before, on Titan, a few tears dropped into Peter’s dusty hair as he dragged him off the red, sandy ground, but the kid shouldn’t have to shoulder his emotional outburst right now. He’s tired, and broken, and still just a kid.

After a few moments, Tony feels the futon shift and a small body presses up against his side, bony knees pressing against his thigh. His arm automatically loops around Peter’s shoulders and he pulls his close, pulling his head down to his good shoulder.

“We can keep it, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers, holding the picture against his knees.

“We can take more,” Tony assures him, sniffing. He looks up at the ceiling; the tiny spider in the corner that had been there when they all arrived back is still there. Peter amazingly hates spiders, so he’s either not noticed her or he’s too tired to care.

“Do you need a tissue?”

“No, I’m good, bud,” Tony lays his head on Peter’s, shifting against the hard back of the futon. He looks at the picture, the ridiculous, dorky picture they’d taken in a hurry when Tony invented a goddamn internship so Peter had a legitimate excuse to use for school. He’d suggested the picture as a joke, to commemorate it. He’s never been so thrilled he did. He should have taken more. He’s going to take so many more.

“Thank you for coming to find me,” Peter whispers, his chin digging into Tony’s shoulder.

“Always, Pete,” Tony rubs his up and down his arm. “Are you warm enough?” Peter has been consistently freezing since he popped back into existence.

“Yeah,” Peter shrugs, curling further into himself and Tony’s side. “But I don’t know if I’ll fall asleep again.”

“That’s fine. We can go screw around in the workshop. Just don’t tell your aunt.”

“‘K. Can we have waffles for breakfast?”

“We’ll see. I think it’s Clint’s turn to pull his weight,” Tony chuckles and squeezes Peter’s shoulder. He needs to eat, everything he can, right now.

“So long as it’s not Thor,” Peter snorts derisively. Probably the only time he smiled that first day was when Thor introduced himself. “All he wants to eat is bowls of bread. And coffee.”

“That’s because there’s no beer. And you love bread. I’ve seen you put breadsticks in your backpack.”

“I could eat some breadsticks,” Peter yawns, and sets the photo beside him on the futon. “Maybe sleep for a bit more?”

“Whatever you want, kiddo.”

Soon enough, faster than Tony was expecting, Peter is snoring softly, once again blessedly asleep. He’ll take it, even though his back is screaming and his bundled left arm is starting to burn. He manages to extract his right arm and get his phone out of his pocket without jostling or waking Peter up, just to get a new photograph to stick in a frame for Peter’s nightstand. Might as well start now.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Endgame is going to be an Irondad Only event.


End file.
